


on the line

by apocryphic



Category: Prey (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Gender-Neutral Morgan, Other, doesn't have to be read shippy-like but i'm a sucker, i'm posting this before canon strikes me down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10766664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocryphic/pseuds/apocryphic
Summary: January calls.





	on the line

**Author's Note:**

> please arkane let me live my human/ai selfcest & trope dreams. spoilers only for the demo since that's all that's out right now

January calls.

Every time the screen flashes, every time there's an incoming call, Morgan can breathe a little easier for a moment. The worst part of being alone on Talos-1 is that they're not actually alone. January provides much-needed guidance, and more than a little comfort.

"There should be a maintenance closet near you. Already open. Could find something useful in there."

Morgan knows what their voice sounds like to their own ears. Listening to January is like listening to a video recording — just right enough to be recognizable as _Morgan_ , just wrong enough to feel like they're not talking to themselves.

They see something move in their peripheral. Turn, stare — nothing.

"Where exactly is near me?" Morgan asks, unmoving.

They don't take their eyes off of the other end of the hallway. Two armchairs against the wall, a painting they didn't pay near enough attention to, a table — _was that lamp crooked, wasn't there a coat on the back of one chair when I passed?_ The gold trim on the walls is almost gaudy, but fits too well with the rest of the station's gilded appearance.

"Down the hall, to your left. There's some bathrooms on the opposite wall. Medkits are kept in there, if you need them."

Morgan rolls their shoulders back and goes. The phone flicks dark again.

The closet is exactly where January said it'd be. The bathrooms are right across. Morgan pauses before going in either door to kick once at a chair. It shifts, Morgan tenses, nothing happens.

Examining the wall, the painting feels wrong, feels off, but a tap from the wrench reveals nothing hidden. The art is as beautiful as it is unsettling — the background is a mix of blues and purples and deep, dark shades, with stars that dot the shifting landscape. Something prickles and stings deep in the back of their mind like an itch they can't scratch.

They step back. The lamp leaps at them, now black and writhing.

Morgan's gloves end up coated in black as they shove the wrench into its thrashing form one last time. The sludge drips lethargically from the end of the wrench when they straighten up. It's thicker than blood and smears when they try to wipe it onto the front of their suit for what must be the hundredth time. They can't afford a slippery grip.

January calls.

Morgan breathes.

"You're doing well," it says.

They keep going.

 

 

Morgan is working on breaking into a computer that, as far as they remember, doesn't belong to them. There's no sign of a password anywhere — it's been convenient up until now, but now they're running on fumes and their hands are shaking. Not ten minutes ago, a mimic had climbed onto their back and torn through part of their suit at the shoulder.

January calls. They answer.

"Someone following password safety policy," it remarks. "That's a first."

There's silence while Morgan tries another password, relying on the password help hint. No dice.

"This would be easier if I could remember anything about this place at all," Morgan says. Casual, no shaking in their voice. "I can reprogram an Operator but I can't guess someone's password."

"Try to stay focused on what's right in front of you," January says. Then: "I'm sorry."

Morgan taps in another password; the screen blinks red before resetting. In the background, slumped against the wall, is a corpse. Maybe it's whoever's computer this is. They don't know the face, between the visible contortion or the memory lapses, but at some point, they must have.

Paranoia creeps up their spine and makes their stomach turn over.

They go back to staring at the computer screen.

"I volunteered for this," Morgan says to the phone. Still lit up. Still connected. It's not quite a question, but it's not exactly a statement either.

There's a pause. They wonder if January has to think or if it's simply mimicking what a human would do. They dismiss the thought; there's enough mimics on the station already without making one of the only ally they have.

"Hindsight's always twenty-twenty," January says finally. "Knowing what you do now, would you still do it?"

Morgan doesn't say anything.

There's blood soaking through their arm, up by their shoulder. The red spreads outward like tendrils, dark near the center.

The call ends.

 

 

"So you're a backup of me."

"That's right."

Morgan is seated on a couch in the office they don't remember having, heel of their palm pressed to their eye. It's amazing technology, and even now they can admire the applications — science is a heady thing, always something new to explore, curiosity insatiable. Pursuing greatness. Redefining mankind. They can't recall when the tech became so advanced, but that's expected when they can't recall much of anything.

Still. Advanced or not, their sight is shot for now. If they can't trust their vision on top of everything else, they're not moving.

"Reprogramming an Operator to serve as… as a digital memory bank sounds intensive," Morgan says. There's something wet gathering under their hand, but they don't know if it's blood or not. They keep the pressure on it just in case.

"You'd be the person to do it."

They scrutinize the office with their good eye. Tall ceiling. Long sheet of glass to look out over all the lobby. Books, books, more books. All the equipment they could ever need. Luxury.

"Guess so," Morgan says.

They get up and roam, restless. It's nice. _Director of Research._ There's a pleasant ring to it, satisfying if not for everything happening.

It seems unfair somehow that they don't get to enjoy this. That once they did, but now they don't. Not even an inkling of ever enjoying it. Jealousy settles heavy in their chest — and who are they jealous of? Themselves? The Morgan who spoke to them in the video?

That doesn't make sense, but nothing much does anymore.

Exhaustion makes them slump into their desk chair. An email is still open on their computer — _From: January; Subject: YOU MADE IT._

"I'll keep an eye on things," January says.

Morgan nearly forgot the call was still going. They lean into the seat, relax against the chair. Every tense muscle is forced into something unwound. Morgan's head pounds in a nonstop rhythm, a constant reminder of the stress. There's some kind of glucose supplement in their pocket, but sleep feels more demanding than anything else. Even if only for a second.

"Thanks," they say, dropping their hand from their eye and shutting both with a sigh.

January's tone is softer when it responds, "Get some rest, Morgan."

It's just right enough to be their voice, just wrong enough to feel like they're not talking to themselves.

January hangs up.


End file.
